"Good to see you, Lucky." The old man raised his glass, took a small sip, then tilted it back and finished it off. It wasn't even a full sho
"Good to see you, Lucky."
The old man raised his glass, took a small sip, then tilted it back and finished it off.
It wasn't even a full shot, but somehow he made it feel like he was downing a whole pint of beer.
Under the bar's warm lighting, the shiny dome of his balding head glinted with a chaotic shimmer.
Sebastian Ibarra—just another old priest in Heywood, the kind who could disappear in a crowd any day.
He wasn't young anymore. The last stubborn ring of hair clinging to the back of his neck and the scattered cybernetic plates poking through his age spots were his final stand against time.
To mercs, he was simply "The Padre."
That explained why the group of heavy-set Valentinos at the table next to them kept flashing him polite smiles. No one in Heywood dared mess with this seemingly ordinary old man—same reason you don't go slapping a tiger's ass.
"Likewise. It's been a while, Padre."
Roqi raised his glass and downed it in one go.
Originally, it had just been Roqi, Jackie, and V lounging in the bar, chatting over drinks. Roqi had been absentmindedly sipping through a straw, so bored he started blowing bubbles.
They were about to head out and stir up some trouble or pick a fight with some punk when the old man appeared, as quietly as a shadow, at their table.
At first glance, Roqi thought he was just another street preacher. Then he did a double take—holy shit, it was him.
Naturally, they welcomed him in without hesitation.
"If it weren't for Padre, I wouldn't have so many great gigs lined up," Jackie said, shooting a proud look at Roqi and V like a kid showing off a trophy.
"That's because you've got the skills, my child."
The Padre replied calmly, unmoved by Jackie's praise.
"Heh, no doubt about that."
Jackie chuckled, scratching his head sheepishly. "Lucky, V—Heywood's been booming lately. There's too much work for me to handle alone. You guys interested?"
"New gigs? What kind?"
V poured himself a drink, then filled Roqi's glass halfway as well.
Heywood was Valentino turf. Unlike most gangs, the Valentinos prized loyalty and brotherhood. Only someone like Padre—respected, connected—could hold ground here as a fixer.
They usually kept gigs within the crew. Outsiders rarely got a shot.
Unless, of course, things were getting overwhelming.
"Same ol', same ol'." Jackie ticked them off on his fingers. "Revenge hits, murder-for-hire, smuggling, drugs, human trafficking."
Yep. The usual. Classic Night City shit.
In this town, there was no bottom. If you could imagine it, someone would pay you to do it.
Hijack a convoy for insurance fraud. Whack a corpo and dump the body. Send some executive's mistress and her boy toy into the bay. Steal blackmail footage from shady clubs. Burn down a rival's warehouse while you're at it.
Sometimes Roqi wondered if he was in Night City or GTA's Los Santos.
Sure, he took kill gigs. But he had his lines.
If you're gonna choose, at least pick something that lets you sleep at night.
Let corpos screw each other. Let gangs devour themselves. And get paid while you're at it.
That was the kind of thinking that kept Roqi, V, and Jackie tight.
Eventually, word got around. Civilians who recognized them would nervously wave and force a smile after they'd executed some abuser or exploitative boss.
"Come again soon, sir."
Yeah. Heroes of the street, Night City-style.
Of course, someone always took the dirtier jobs.
And mercs always crossed paths with the bloody ones.
You'd see someone at a bar, and next thing you knew, their body was lying in front of you, your blade still dripping.
As Emeric once put it: "Someday, mercs will stop and ask if the gig is worth it—when they realize Lucky's on the other end."
That was one of the first times Roqi really felt what it meant to "make a name."
"So, how's it going with Rogue?"
Asking about one fixer in front of another was taboo.
Unless the one asking is a fixer.
Padre looked directly at Roqi.
Back when they were still doing low-end jobs, they'd constantly bounce between Watson and Heywood. Moving stolen goods, fencing through Padre's connections.
Konpeki hadn't been a success, but it made their rep. They were ruthless. Fearless.
Since then, they'd slowly clawed their way back up.
Roqi mostly worked with Rogue. V was tangled up with the Aldecaldos. Jackie returned home to Heywood.
Not split up, not really. Just branching out.
"Rogue? It's fine. Plenty of gigs, but Afterlife is full of mercs." Roqi replied vaguely. He knew better than to say too much.
"Glad to hear it," Padre said, then gave Jackie a look. Time to fill them in.
"Me?" Jackie pointed to himself, then scanned the bar quickly.
"Yeah, there's been a lot of work lately. Too much."
"What do you mean?"
Roqi and V exchanged a look. Neither understood. So they both turned to Jackie.
"This is Heywood. Valentino territory. But more and more gigs are coming in from other districts. Smuggling, fencing. Lots of new faces around."
Jackie leaned in, voice dropping.
"So who are they?"
Roqi didn't think he was being paranoid. When Padre raised a flag, you listened.
Heywood had been stable for years. Not knowing who's who meant something was wrong.
"Word is... some are from outside the city," Padre added.
"Outside? Don't tell me Dakota has beef with you now," V asked, frowning.
Dakota Smith—fixer for the Badlands, Pomō Nomad clan. Ran the widest network outside the city. Known for being fair and straight-up.
Fixers didn't always get along, but Dakota wasn't the backstabbing type.
"Not her. That old buzzard never pulls sneaky shit."
Padre smiled cryptically, like some street prophet who somehow made you believe him.
"It's the Wraiths."
"Why am I not surprised," V sighed and finished his drink.
You couldn't even call them Nomads. They were desert raiders. Pirates.
Roqi blinked. One word came to mind:
"Bandits."
"Exactly," Jackie nodded. "Desert rats hitting Heywood. Crazy, huh?"
"Makes sense. Aren't they still at war with the Aldecaldos?"
"Wraiths aren't one group," Roqi reminded them. "Just like Saul's people are only one Aldecaldo tribe."
The ones fighting Panam were the Night Stalkers. Armored trucks, MG pickups, sand bikes. Straight-up Mad Max vibes.
Wraiths weren't few. Not many, either. Just… enough. Maybe hundreds. Maybe thousands. No one really knew.
"Well damn," V muttered.
"You haven't heard anything from Rogue? In Watson?" Jackie asked.
"Not really. I've been doing corpo and city hall jobs for her."
"Keep an eye out, kid," Padre warned, sipping his drink slowly.
"Maelstrom's been... efficient with their human resources lately."
Roqi blinked, then his eyes narrowed.
"Human trafficking?"
"Bingo," Padre said.
"They operating in Heywood too?"
"Not yet. My eyes still work."
Padre waved off Jackie's offer to refill his glass.
"But some of our own have gone missing. I want you to check it out."
Just a few disappearances? Not a big deal?
Unless they were Valentinos.
The Wraiths showing up meant someone was trying to stir shit on Padre's turf. And that mattered.
Especially if Maelstrom was in on it.
Outlands and inner city working together? Not good.
Padre's subtext was clear: Find out who it is, and I'll make sure they regret ever setting foot in Heywood.
Classic tiger.
"Alright. One last question," Roqi said, nodding at V. They were in.
"Why us? Jackie's the only one who really knows Heywood."
"Simple. Jackie vouched for you."
Roqi and V were surprised—but it made sense.
"And I like Jackie. He's different from the others."
Taller? Louder? Goofier?
If Padre wasn't there, Roqi would've roasted him for sure.
But the look in Padre's eyes wasn't a joke.
"No problem, Padre."
Roqi gave a clumsy old-school bow and smiled.
"Let Jackie show you the ropes. He knows what to do."
Padre stood, gave them a small nod, and left the bar.
He might not have the strongest presence or the sharpest tongue, but no one ever dared underestimate him.
Fixers aren't simple people.
Except Dexter Deshawn.
That guy was a second-rate blowhard with a big mouth and no brains.
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